Ten Million Eternities
by redlipstick444
Summary: Eleven years ago, you left London to live in the United States, leaving behind the great consulting detective: Sherlock Holmes, and his undeniably loyal friend and colleague: John Watson. Now, you had returned to London under dramatic circumstances you had foreseen in the past, but had long forgotten. Sherlock x Reader
1. Strike of the Bell

Sunlight dazzled through the leaves and branches of a nearby beauteous honeysuckle. Beaming down, the sun provided just the perfect amount of lighting for a human being lying on a purple and mint-green colored striped lawn chair, reading a newly-released novel. Splashing from an over-sized chlorine swimming pool occupied by young, excited teenagers celebrating the ending of their current school year and the beginning of their summer vacation drifted over to you, as you simply ignored them, allowing the sounds to integrate themselves with the words of your book, so that in your mind, they became one.

This was wonderful.

Meadowlarks, though a bit strange for making an appearance considering your area of residence, sang virtuous melodies, their sounds worth the price of a heaven-belonging angel's belt. Wind settled itself among the bark of the trees and gently along and over the perfectly-enclosing and shade-providing fence, providing just the exact amount of peacefulness and tranquility to be honored of by a king or queen.

_Yes, this was truly wonderful._

You finished the eighteenth chapter in your book-surprisingly only making you a quarter of the way through the novel. It was an interesting novel, though, one of murder and suspense, and you wouldn't mind if it took five million chapters to complete it. It peaked your interest more than most books had, lately.

Sighing, you sat up and headed into the kitchen in your dazzling, sunlit, mansion. _Mansion?_ Yeah. _Oh, _yeah. Shortly after moving to the United States, (after leaving London), you had astonishingly struck the lottery, causing yourself to be of profit with a whopping total of over two-hundred and ninety-million dollars. Not long after receiving all of your cash, you'd settled yourself down-in your mansion-not far from the coastline of the beach in sunny, Southern California. You lived alone-people and social gatherings had never been quite your forte-you had considered purchasing a pet. However, the thought and fear of taking full care of another living, breathing, thing completely alone completely consumed your idea, and overwhelmed you to the point that you eventually decided against it.

Oh, well. You knew what had happened last time, in such a situation.

Gathering the materials and ingredients required to make yourself ice cold raspberry lemonade for yourself, for the afternoon was still young, you flipped on your entire wall-consuming television from across the room-something you rarely did. The screen of the television displayed the news, and a female news anchor described and discussed the constantly-rising prices of corn crop and peaches. You were about to change the channel to something more important to you instead of _farming news, _when you were met with the next news story headline being presented across the screen: one with unforgettable words and an unmistakable name and title involved:

**LONDON'S FAMOUS CONSULTING DETECTIVE SHERLOCK HOLMES CAUGHT IN HAIL OF GUNFIRE: NOW RESIDING IN SAINT BARTHOLOMEW'S HOSPITAL IN CRITICAL CONDITION.**

You were on the plane to London by that evening.


	2. Knotted Strings

Arriving in London was like a breath of fresh air. Well, in a way. It was mixed with relief, reminiscence, sadness, and worry, all of which pertained to Sherlock and his horrid situation.

The town of your past residence was and also felt slightly different but very much the same since when you had resided there.

You rented out a motel room, unpacked the few bags that you'd brought along with you, and took a nice, hot shower. By the time you had exited the shower, it was 8:31 a.m., and since you'd already slept on the plane (though, not an easy task, with the constant noises of a crying and all-but soothable child in seat 15B, the constant germs circulating coming from the man and his female partner in seats 22A and 22B-_well, you hoped they were partners, the way they'd been kissing and all-_and the loud music coming from a man in seat 45C, who had been blasting rock music, oblivious to the fact that his headphones hadn't been plugged all the way in) so you weren't _too _exhausted. You quickly decided upon hurriedly dressing yourself and catching the tube that would travel you nearest Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.

**15 Years Prior**

"But, Sherlock," you whined "that's too dangerous. I'm tired of you watching you almost practically sacrificing your life and your safety over a _case_."

"It's part of my job, (y/n). It's what I do." He stated, monotonically. He had been sitting in his chair in 221B Baker Street, while you had sat on the floor by the fireplace, a personal choice of yours. You'd been offered the couch earlier that evening by John, who had left two hours earlier to go visit a special woman he had recently met: Lilac Hiems. You hoped this soon-to-be girlfriend of his would last longer than all of his other short-lived partners.

"I know..." you trailed off, then remembered what you were going to say. "But, really, Sherlock. I don't want to see you get...y'know...injured...or, um...anything like that."

He turned his face slightly towards you, and you could see the surprise and confusion flooded across it. He cocked his head softly, like a bewildered dog. "And why would that be of any concern to you?"

"Because..." you trailed off again once more, not being able to-not wanting to-put your true feelings into words for the fear of his response. "Okay, look." you began, slightly demanding. "I just want you to be okay, alright? Is that too much to ask?" You could feel yourself becoming teary-eyed, something you _never, ever_ did in front of others. You wondered why _this man-of all people-this strange, mysterious, man could make you feel this way,_ especially regarding _his_ life and safety. As tears began to sting your eyes and threatened to push through and seep through your eyelids, you bit your lip as hard as possible and hung your head ashamed, trying your best not to let your emotions outwardly display. Afraid that Sherlock had seen the sadness written on your face, you kept your head down, not wanting him to see anymore than he may had noticed already. In your brain, you kept attempting to convince yourself that he hadn't seen anything at all, that if you just kept up what you'd been currently doing, he wouldn't see it at all, but in your heart, you were sure that he had. You stayed there in silence, unmoving in shame and fear.

He stared at you for a moment, doing what you assumed was deducing you for the god-forsaken trillionth time. However, had he been deducing something about you, he verbalized nothing regarding your shoulders hunched slightly-more forward in self-defense, or your head hung in insecurity and defeat-even the shakiness that had been in your voice that had been when you attempted to explain to him why you were so concerned about him. He also ceased to mention your dilated pupils (as he'd done to Irene Adler, nearly a year earlier) or even the small tear that had slipped down your cheek that had gone noticed even by _you yourself._ Instead, he just continued to stare at you, his features undistinguishably softer to everyone but himself as he finally spoke up, breaking the silence that was, to you, very much awkward and unwanted.

"Come here."

"What?" you questioned, confused and completely taken aback.

"I said 'come here.'" he replied, his baritone deep and as rich as the most luscious and most succulent piece of chocolate ever know to mankind.

You uneasily stood up, bemuddled, and clambered your way over to him, standing before his chair in which he sat. It took a few more moments of again awkward and to you, uncomfortable silence, and then awkward eye-gazing until you finally decided it would be best for you to speak up. "Yes?"

He considered you a second, his eyes flitting to different areas all over your face, sending brief but powerful shivers up your spine. "Sit."

_"What?!" _you asked, confused once more. "Where?"

He scooted over slightly in his chair, leaving about a space of approximately four inches open. He looked down at it, and back at you. "Here."

"What?" you repeated, for what you perceived to be the third time. When he didn't respond, and just continued to stare blankly at you, you spoke up once more. "With _you_?!"

"That's what I was implying." he stated, expression unchanged.

"Oh...um." You struggled for words as you felt the much undesired heat overtake you cheeks. "Alright." You took another small stride towards his chair, causing you to be just an inch and a half closer to him than you had been before. "This spot isn't big enough for me to sit in." You said, pointing out the painstakingly obvious.

"That's the exact point of this." Sherlock said, matter-of-factly, taking you by complete and utter surprise. Another sizzling wave of heat flushed your cheeks, in which you knew was accompanied by a bright-red color this time. Sherlock acted as if he didn't notice, and did nothing but to continue to stare.

"Erm...um...alright then." you uncomfortably said. Sherlock gave you a tight-lipped smile as you proceeded to sit, causing most of your body weight to rest on his lap. You sat extremely rigid and stiff, not willing to budge an inch.

"Ah, loosen up." Sherlock said, knowing that you were thinking about how stiff and awkward this whole situation was.

"What?" you asked again, fully convinced it had been the trillionth time you had asked him that in the past ten minutes. "_Sherlock Holmes_, of _all_ people, is telling _me_ to loosen up?"

Your little question earned yourself a small chuckle of laughter from Sherlock, his chest gently rumbling as he did. For some reason, this seemed to relax you a bit, and you softly leaned your head backwards so that it lay naturally on the part of his shoulder facing outwards in front of him. His chuckle grew into a laugh, which all but made you join in the laughter with him. You two sat together, laughing together, in complete peace.

The enjoyable laughter eventually died down, leaving the two of you in complete silence together. You turned your head sideways, and then upwards, to get a good look at Sherlock. Your eyes took in his beautiful and all but perfect profile, and studied his fascinating blue and green orbs. "Sherlock," you said, softly, in all seriousness. "I don't want Moriarty to hurt you."

He looked down at you, head slightly bowed, and then closed his eyes. "I know." he whispered. "I know."

You hadn't expected the soft response Sherlock had provided you with, but you didn't want to break the moment in any way, so you hid your surprise. Quite well, might I add.

"Then why do you continue to play this 'game' with him?" You questioned. "Your life isn't worth any of Moriarty's imbecilic ideas or plans."

"If I don't continue on playing this little '_game_' with him, he'll continue to come after me. Play it or not, there is no escaping Jim Moriarty, at the moment. So, I figured, why not enjoy myself, while I have the chance? It's quite a bit better than sitting throughout the process of the whole conundrum being _bored_." He practically spat the last word, as if it were the most bitter and distasteful thing on the planet.

Once he finished his statement, your brain had come up with over a million ways to respond to Sherlock, some non-verbal gestures, some sympathetic, some supportive and understanding, some sensible, and some just flat-out rude. Unable to choose just one of these responses without sounding psycho rendered you speechless, as you continued to gaze at Sherlock in awe.

"I want Moriarty dead." you stated, bitterly, unaware of the words coming out of your mouth until you after had spoken them.

"Don't we all?" asked Sherlock, calmly, giving you another tight-lipped smile. His voice was soft and smooth. "Except for his intricate web? And maybe even them sometimes?"

You nodded your head and looked down, a feeling of guilt overtaking you: guilt because there was nothing you could do to stop this situation or even help out in any way whatsoever. Thousands of ideas flooded your mind: ideas of overtaking Moriarty and getting him completely out of the way, all of which you knew would be deemed impossible.

"I hate what he's doing to you and your reputation." You said in a fierce whisper, tears once again threatening to overtake your vision. You looked down as you did earlier that evening, embarrassed of your outwardly expression of feelings, and desperately hoping that he hadn't noticed your scarce tears. Surely, he'd want nothing at all to do with you ever again if he had.

Shockingly, though, instead of rejection, you felt a strong and warm, yet gentle hand overtake yours and enclose it inside of it. You slowly looked up, only to see Sherlock giving you a small smile. Taking your chin in his other hand, he softly leaned your head down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Don't worry about a thing." he said gently, after he pulled back, looking you directly in the eyes. The sincerity in his voice was as genuine as an one-hundred percent real leather coat. "I've got everything under control." Warmth spread across your cheeks once more and most-likely took to color on your face. He cupped his hand around your cheek and allowed his thumb to slowly but repeatedly stroke the skin there.

"D-do you promise me?" You stuttered. Your stuttering was caused by a mixture of ongoing shock from what was taking place at that moment and altogether enjoyment of it, also. In addition, you were overwhelmed with love for this man, who had seemed to drop what may have been his sociopathic act just to comfort you. You took two fingers and gently pushed back a few of his adorable curls that neared and threatened to enter his eyes. His small smile, as he continued to cup and stroke your cheek, grew a tiny bit wider. His eyes didn't shift their gaze one bit when he'd answered your curious question with a sentence with a mixture of such brevity, succintness, and certainty, that it would be a crime not to believe:

"I promise."

He unexpectedly placed his arm (in which the hand that was stroking your cheek was connected to) and draped it protectively around you, drawing you in closer. You allowed you head to rest naturally sideways on his shoulder. The warmth radiating off of his body comforted you and you, seeking more of that warmth and comfort, buried your face in his porcelain neck. Your eyelids suddenly became heavy as sleep threatened to pull you in. You didn't know if it was better to just succumb to sleep or to stay conscious to experience every second in this moment. You could faintly, through your seemingly-complicated thoughts, hear and feel Sherlock's heartbeat.

Sherlock Holmes, the man without a heart.

Here you were, enclosed in Sherlock's arms, sitting in his lap, somewhere you never even _dreamed_ of being.

It was the most relaxing thing in the world.

In efforts to stay awake, you occasionally opened your eyes, not wanting to waste away any second of this whatsoever.

You were fighting a losing battle, and sleep eventually took you over. It was, might I also add, the best rest you had gotten in years. Some would argue, in your_ lifetime.  
><em>  
>Your dreams were filled with many questions and statements, but a few proved of most importance to you:<p>

Why had Sherlock done what he had did? Had he meant it to be helpful, or was it just some kind of experiment?

And, most of all:

What _was _Sherlock Holmes to you?


	3. Steady Heart

You arrived at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital at around 1:00 pm. Receiving Sherlock's room number (after providing identification, and falsely claiming to be his cousin-in-law after a short altercation with the receptionist), you were on your way.

Making your way to the fourth floor, the one Sherlock was residing in, you took a deep breath.

You'd see him soon. In critical condition, but soon.

Turning on the second corner to your left, seeing Sherlock's room number straightaway from a distance of about 100 meters, you saw a figure heading your way.

A figure who's face you hadn't seen in eleven years, nor had heard it's voice.

John Watson.

He spotted you about three seconds after you spotted him, his face breaking out in surprise and a huge, genuine smile, despite the current circumstances. "(Y/N)," he said, slowly walking towards you, arms outstretched. "Oh my God."

You let yourself grip onto John and fall into his comforting and welcoming embrace. "Oh my God." he repeated, his voice soft and sweet, barely above a whisper. "Oh my God. Eleven years, it's been, right? Dear God, I thought I'd never see you again." Tears were welling up in his crystal green eyes. "I've missed you. How've you been?" he asked, after gently releasing you. He straightened his clothes out, placing a a hand on either side of his body and sliding it down quickly.

"I've missed you too, John." you replied, wiping at the remaining tears (Oh dear, where had those come from?) that appeared on your face; you hadn't notice them prior to wiping your eyes. "I've been...well..alright, John." You gave him the fakest, yet weakest smile. It wasn't until this exact moment that you noticed how lonely you'd actually been. "I'm so glad to see you. I know, under these circumstances..." you trailed off, now feeling very awkward and unknowing of how to complete your sentence.

John nodded, understanding. "Same to you, of course." he replied, smiling, though his eyes were as wet as a combination of a million seas: gleaming. "So...erm..." he trailed off, as you had, and stared at his feet.

"Yeah," you said, gaining back the floor and giving John another brief smile as his eyes met yours once more. You slowly dropped your smile. "He's still...?" your voice wavered, knowing that John, being the wise and understanding sweetheart that he was, would understand.

John hung his head. Of course, you had hit a soft spot, but hey, it had to be done. "Yeah, same condition, no improvement." he stated, his voice dropping a few octaves into all-seriousness and his eyes averting their gaze to the nearest corner of a wall. "I phoned Mary, a few hours ago. Though we divorced about eight years ago, she's still supporting me in this situation." His eyes averted their gaze once more, this time to the opposite corner. "I appreciate her support, though. Her and her husband's."

"_What?!_" you questioned, in surprise. You hadn't a clue that John and Mary had gotten a divorce, let alone be alerted of the fact that Mary had remarried. You took a small step back, still taking in and processing your newly-discovered old information. Oh well, that's what you got for leaving all of your friends behind.

"Yeah." John said "And they have two children together." he added, noticing your semi-apparent surprise. You were attempting to keep you shock from being overt, but you were slowly but surely failing. "We divorced because there were just some issues that just couldn't be agreed upon, y'know?" He smoothed out his clothing from his torso once more as you nodded, remembering the past events (the issues that had occurred between John and Mary, etc.). You noticed (by his body language) that the subject of Mary was making John uncomfortable (though it was not _you _who brought her up as a subject _in the first place), _so you quickly changed it.

"I am allowed to visit Sher-Sherlock, right?" you asked, not knowing how choked up his name would make you before you'd said it. In fact, you hadn't spoke his name aloud in the past eleven years you'd been gone. Though you already knew you could visit Sherlock (you had already spoken-argued-with the receptionist at the desk about that issue. You reminded yourself that you had only changed the subject for John's sake.).

"Yeah," he answered, yet another weak smile crossing his face as his glimmering eyes met you once more. He motioned his hand across the hallway in the direction that Sherlock's room was in. "You can go right ahead. I'm going to go get some tea and take a walk. I'll be back in about thirty minutes. Would you like anything?"

Knowing that John was only being polite-being the gentleman that he was-and probably wasn't even planning on getting those things for _himself. _You didn't want to make him do anything extra, or delay him any longer from his much-needed alone time. "No, thanks, John. I'm fine. I just ate, and I had some tea about an hour ago. Thank you, though."

John nodded at you and smiled. "Of course. I'll be off then, be back soon."

"Alright." you replied, gifting him with a parting grin (which both of you, of course, knew was fake). John briskly began to walk back to the lobby, walking the way you'd always remembered he had (God, you'd missed him).

With John gone, you were again all alone. You took a deep breath, preparing yourself to see Sherlock in the damning state he was in. You closed your eyes, let out a shuddering breath, and slowly paced down the hallway until you reached Sherlock's room door. _'This is it,' _you thought to yourself._'This is what I came all the way here for.'  
><em>  
>You braced yourself, looking down and back up again, readying yourself.<p>

You took a step in the room.

Nothing could have possibly prepared you for what you saw.


	4. Natural Inquiries of the Mind

Nothing could have possibly prepared you for what you saw when you entered that room.

You suddenly felt faint, head spinning and ears ringing, as you wondered: How could John Watson have been so strong? You were the one well-known for being strong despite the circumstance (as was John, except for the fact that he tended to show more emotion then you ever had).

Sherlock, your Sherlock, looked practically tapered to his sterilized hospital bed. You made a few mental notes of all that seemed wrong with Sherlock's external appearance: pale skin, unresponsive (of course), skinny as ever, ill, and most of all, dead. You suddenly felt as if you weighed a million tons, and you feet could not move themselves to part from the floor. Sherlock's forehead was covered with sweat, and his once perfect (and actually, after a quick revision, still perfect) brown curls stuck to the sweat and plastered themselves to his forehead.

"Sher-" you allowed the partial name to escape from your throat before you nearly collapsed next to his bed. As your body nearly hit the floor you gasped a bit, pulled a chair (thankfully in arm's reach) over to Sherlock's bedside and weakly, with a molasses-resembling speed slid yourself into it. Ensuring that you would not fall again, you grabbed onto the railing connected to Sherlock's bed and held on to it with a ever-growing steady hand.

"My Sherlock," you managed to choke out, in a tear-suppressed whisper. "Oh my God."

Sherlock's medical chart, not in it's belonging space-for it should have been hanging on the wall-hook made specifically for the patient's chart-instead laid on the nightstand containing very few of Sherlock's belongings. You figured John had looked it over and placed it there, forgetting to place it back in it's respectable area due to all of the pressure and stress he'd been going through since Sherlock's demis-

No. You dared yourself not to think of this injury as Sherlock's demise, but rather a few injuries, and a learning experience. Yes, that was better fitted for this situation. It calmed you down a bit more.

The chart stared at you, begging you, pleading with you to pick it up and indulgently read through its descriptive words-the ones that described the injuries of Sherlock Holmes.

You were afraid.

You did not want to read them.

After about a few minutes of side-eyeing the chart with an evil glare, as if it could physically harm you in some way, you snatched it up, for the temptation of reading it had won out against your unwillingness to discover the truth about the harm done to Sherlock.

Looking down at the first sheet of paper lying on the clipboard, you began to read:

28 shots in total.

You breathing hitched as your eyes moved beyond those words, only to find a diagram of the human body, with arrows, marks, and a few written notes indicating all of Sherlock's wound wherever they were located on the body. Below, there was a complete written transcription of the diagram. It read: Two bullet wounds in abdomen, three bullet wounds in upper chest area, bullet-grazing on left side of neck, eight bullet wounds in right leg, six bullet wounds in left leg, two bullet wounds in left arm, and- you gasped when you read the last phrase of the transcription: one slight bullet wound in left side of cranium.

'Oh no', you thought, helplessly allowing the chart to fall from your hands and go crashing to the floor. On the other pages of the chart, there were more in-depth explanations of each wound, but you could not bring yourself to read them. Ever. You dropped your head in your hands. It was only seconds before that action that you noticed the blood-infused bandage covering most of Sherlock's head.

'Oh no', you thought once more. How blind could you have been not to have noticed all of these things when you'd first entered the room? To your knowledge, from what you'd briefly skimmed over on the chart, all of Sherlock's wounds had been operated on, so for the most part, you didn't really have to worry about them suddenly whisking him away for some type of surgery.

Unless something went horribly wrong.

Unless something went horribly wrong.

No, no, no, you would definitely not allow yourself to think that way. Sherlock would be fine, perfectly fine. He would resume his life at Baker Street, the way it was prior to the way it was before the shooting. He would return to solving crimes, John would once again be by his side, you-

You.

What would you do after Sherlock's recovery? Would you live in 221B Baker Street like you once had? No, you would give John and Sherlock their space. Would you visit 221B Baker Street? Maybe, if Sherlock accepted your presence. Or would he? Would he reject your presence? Would he not want you there at all? Would he just perceive you as a an object of the long ago past, and just-

No. This was not time to think about yourself, this was time to think about Sherlock's wellness. You immediately chided yourself for being so selfish and turned all of your attention back to the broken Sherlock that lay before you.

Broken? No. Sherlock was well, perfectly well, right?

He had to be.

If he wouldn't, you...you'd...

No. That was enough. You had to be there for poor Sherlock in that moment, and what was else would occur after was to be dealt with then, and only then.

Slowly, like molasses, you reached out to rest your fingertips on the portion of Sherlock's forehead in which the blood-soaked bandage did not cover. In soft, yet steady motions, you gently stroked the slowly beading sweat from off of his forehead. You stroked his curls in a direction away from the sweat. You stroked away a small fragment of dirt that lay in Sherlock's hairline.

You imagined yourself as stroking away the pain. For you, Sherlock, or the both of you? You had no clue yourself.

Gently, with your other hand, you touched Sherlock's heart. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat correlated perfectly with the sounding heart monitor which resounded its sound off of the smooth hospital walls.

You looked at Sherlock's eyelids-stared at them-picturing them opening, allowing his piercing orbs, their color a mixture of the most beautiful blue and greens to have ever crossed your field of vision, to mirror your intense gaze (and then some), to stare deep into your soul, to read every part of your being whether it be from the present, past, or future. You mentally once more visualized his eyes fluttering open. As they would, you would speak to him, kiss his forehead softly, and tell him how much you cared for him.

Staring at his eyelids, intense and concentrated, you could only formulate one plausible thought in your mind:

Accompanied or not, you were going to kill whoever did this to Sherlock.

And that was a promise, a definite guarantee.


End file.
